Nothing Could Touch Him
by StayGold3
Summary: Dallas Winston was described as "tough, cold, and mean." But maybe he did care. Maybe his own words would come back to haunt him. Because everything that he ever loved or cared about was taken away from him. And maybe that's why he died "young, violent, and desperate," because he was desperate. Because everything that he ever loved or cared about was taken away from him.
1. Chapter 1: Welcome to Tulsa

**Prologue: Welcome to Tulsa**

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Outsiders,_ I am merely an obsessed 12-year-old.

A/N: This is my first fanfic, so I would greatly appreciate some reviews / advice / constructive criticism…

Dally POV:

I walked, no, strutted down the streets of Tulsa, Oklahoma, looking for a place to stay the night or maybe get a drink or something. I was aware but did not care about the fact that I looked like I owned the place, when the truth was that I had just gotten there this morning. I'd hopped a freight last night from New York City, the only place I'd ever lived, because I was on the run from the cops. That, and I was getting tired of New York. My entire gang there, the one _I_ led, for the record, was all in jail for a couple of years for robbing a bunch of police cars.

I'd managed to escape by the skin of my teeth. Again.

That's why I had come to Tulsa in the first place. Not because I actually wanted to, simply because it happened to be the first train leaving the nearest train station in New York. _Oh well,_ I thought, _since when did Dallas Winston think twice about what he was doing? I do whatever I want, however I want, whenever I want, because who's going to stop me?_ I snapped out of my thoughts as I saw some perfectly clean, shining Blue Mustang, full of a bunch of teenage boys wearing madras shirts and perfectly ironed trousers and vests with semi-Beatle haircuts.

"Hey greaser!" one of them yelled, looking down at me as though it was a huge insult or something. I raised my eyebrows and the corners of my mouth twisted up into a smirk. Clearly they didn't know who I was or they sure as, well, sure as a lot of things, as a long list of curse words rolled through my head, wouldn't be messing with me. "Need a haircut?" another yelled, getting out of their car. There were three of them, all dressed up like they were going to a funeral or something. I smirked, they'd sure be headed toward a funeral if they persisted, all right, their _own_ , that is. Snapping back into reality for the second time in the last two minutes, I realized that the guy thought that he was going to try and cut my hair. Emphasis on _thought_ though, nobody in their right mind would _want_ to mess with _the_ Dallas Winston… Speaking of hair…

I leave it long, frankly, because I don't have the time _or_ money to get it cut, but I guess all the other hoods in Tulsa did that too. Pulling out a 10-inch, silver-handled, stolen switchblade from my back pocket, I decided to intimidate them. _Why the hell not?_ I figured. _New town, might as well get a rep starting right now…_

"Do you know who I am?" I asked one of these rich kids, holding the blade at his throat as I punched another in the jaw.

"No, and I don't care, you filthy greaser!" he yelled back at me, struggling to get away from my death grip as I slugged him a couple of times.

"For the record, the name's Dallas Winston, leader of the Heaters, _if_ you've heard of them…" I sneered in the guy's face. He seemed to be a little intimidated; of course he'd heard of the Heaters. They were on every wanted list in every New York newspaper for the last three years.

It looked like all of the blood had drained from the guy's face. He turned practically white, and went completely limp in my grip. I realized that the other two guys had run away. I laughed, loosening my grip on the guy for a split second as I imagined what the gang back home in New York — _No,_ that annoying voice in the back of my head murmured, _Tulsa is your home now, you can never call New York home again,_ but I knew that was the closest thing to a home I had, anyway.

As the guy wriggled out of my grip, I mentally cursed myself, but then began to laugh as the guy started to run away from me. _Wow, looks like I got me a rep already,_ I thought, smirking. The upturned corner of my mouth came down a little bit, though, when all three guys yelled,

"Just wanted to see what you were made of, greaser, we'll go pick on another one later. We weren't really looking for a fight." I was almost relieved at this statement; surely nobody could have fought _that_ badly.

I continued my strut down the street, feeling at home already in this new place. Now, all I needed to do was to find a place to lay over, a drink, and a gang. Rethinking that last statement, I realized that there probably weren't any gangs around here; this place looked out of it. There seemed to be some kind of rivalry, though, between the 'greasers,' probably the poor kids and the hoods, and the rich kids; they undoubtedly had some kind of a nickname too.

 _Oh well,_ I thought as I approached a park and saw a group of guys playing football, _Might as well get to know this place — and the people that live in it — a little better._

A/N: Stay Gold, Everyone!


	2. Chapter 2: Meeting his Kryptonite

A/N: I've been trying to update quickly over the weekend, and I know I've gotten this chapter and the one before this done over the course of two days. Unfortunately, due to school (ugh) and homework, the next one might be a little slower in coming. I'll try to have it up by, well, I guess it isn't that smart to make promises, but oh well. I'm going to trying have it up a week from today: Feb 28.

Chapter 2: Meeting His Kryptonite

Dally POV

I walked up to the group of guys playing football. They kind of reminded me of my old gang back home, _No,_ that annoying little voice in the back of my head commanded me again, _New York isn't your home._ I lie to myself all the time. And this time I convinced myself. I had nothing back there anyway. I don't have a house or anything, obviously, no parents, no relatives, and no gang, not anymore, at least. I snapped out of my thoughts as I saw a tall muscular guy walk up toward me. He looked like he was at least 18.

"Hey, what's your name?" he asked me.

"Dallas Winston." I responded. He looked at me, and then raised his eyebrows. "You running from the fuzz? They didn't seem too happy after y'all stole their cars…" I smirked. Clearly he was referring to the Heaters' latest stunt, the one that my gang was in jail for.

"Yeah, I am. They seemed to have cooled off since then, though. It's been a couple of days. They'll realize eventually that they'll never find me." The boy grinned, and the rest of his little group surged around me. I heard stuff like "Hey, who's this?" and "Damn, is he albino?"

"People — for the record — the name's Dallas Winston, I'm 13, and no, I'm not albino so _never_ mention that again," I answered, growling out the last part. Everyone thinks I'm albino. Have they never seen my eyes? Melanin, I tell you, melanin!

"My name's Darrel Shaynne Curtis, Jr., the tall boy said, and I'm 16."

"Jesus, Darry, no need for the formalities," another guy said. He had wheat-gold hair, and was pretty good-looking. I bet he was the 'popular one' of that group. "Oh, I'm Sodapop by the way, Darry's brother, I'm 12, and this is my kid brother, Ponyboy, he's 10." He pulled an auburn headed shy-looking boy in front of him.

"That's a run-on, Sodapop," were the first words I heard him say.

"What the hell?" Soda asked him, and then Darry reprimanded him for swearing.

"Like I've never heard you say worse," muttered Ponyboy, almost inaudibly. I don't think anybody heard him. That kid puzzled me — he was mouthy and quiet all at the same time. I didn't think I'd ever met anybody like him.

"Ladies, ladies, you're all ugly— I mean beautiful." Another guy walked up toward me with a goofy grin on his face. I immediately returned it, feeling rather silly afterward. _Oh well,_ I figured, _Maybe smiling is contagious._ "I'm Two-Bit, he said, and I'm 14."

"Interesting names you've got," I retorted, my New York accent even more present than normal in this sentence, partly because I knew that these people would've used 'y'all' where I wasn't particularly used to.

"The name's Steve, and I'm 13." Yet another guy walked up from behind me. _Jesus,_ I thought, _oh wait, I don't believe in God, how many of these people are there?_ I figured this wasn't a very polite question, but since when did I give a damn about manners?

"And exactly how many _more_ of you are there?" I asked, slightly sarcastically.

"There's Johnny, but he ain't here right now," Darry responded. "Probably at his house — I hope he's okay."

"Why, do his folks beat 'im or somethin'?" I inquired, genuinely curious.

"Yeah. Mine do too, but the rest of us have okay homes," Steve answered. I had sympathy for him and for the nonexistent Johnny, because my parents got drunk and beat me, and were worse when they were sober. There's a reason why I got the hell out of that house as quickly as I could…

"Speakin' of which, let's get home," said Sodapop. "Mom'll be wondering where we've all gotten to…" I didn't hear the rest, I was wondering what it would be like to have parents that actually gave a hang about me.

"Hey guys, by the way, I got a question for — for y'all," I started, this foreign word rolling off of my tongue in an odd fashion. "I got jumped by a couple o' some rich lookin' kids with a blue Mustang and madras — what's the deal?"

"Oh, the Socs," Two-Bit said casually. "They're always tryin' to pick a fight with us greasers." My confused expression must've betrayed my thoughts at the moment, because Ponyboy added "We're the greasers, we wear jeans and leather jackets and sneakers and live on the East Side. The Socs are short for Socials; they live on the West Side of town and drive Mustangs and Corvairs and wear madras shirts…" He seemed distracted as he trailed off. Suddenly he spoke again. "I'm not really sure how to spell it, though. S-O-C-S maybe, or S-O-S-H-E-S, that's how it sounds." He sounded like he was talking to himself.

"The hell, kid? Nobody gives a damn about how you spell it!" Steve looked pretty pissed. Maybe he just didn't like Ponyboy. _Weird name,_ I thought, _But then again, Sodapop isn't that normal either, oh wait, they're brothers, stupid, maybe their parents were original or something._ I was acting really out of character. I've been thinking more today than I have in the last three years of my life. _Well, no, that's not true, you had plenty of time for thinking in the cooler…_ Point proven.

We all walked into a house. It was nice, clean, fairly big. It wasn't huge or anything, but it was sure nicer than the alley I'd slept in since I was ten. We were greeted by a cheerful woman and a serious looking man whose face sometimes broke into a big smile. Everybody called them Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, I guess that was Darry, Sodapop, and Ponyboy's last name.

Another boy walked into the Curtis house. He said his name was Johnny, but for some crazy reason, everybody called him Johnnycake. Anyway, he looked like a kicked puppy who had been beat on too much, heard too much, seen too much. He looked like an innocent version of me. For some crazy reason, I felt mad when I saw him. Mad at his parents, whom I didn't even know, for ruining his life. Then I came back to my senses. _No. You can't care. Get tough and nothing can touch you. Hard, uncaring, unfeeling, then you will never break. You're Dallas Winston, for Christ's sake! You don't care. You_ can't _care._

Mrs. Curtis honestly acted as a mother figure for the whole gang. She made dinner for nine, and insisted that I stay even though she scarcely knew me. She seems to know the score, though — didn't get freaked out when I mentioned getting jumped or living on the streets. She acted — like I always imagined a mom would — she cared, but understood, and she tried to talk me out of trouble but didn't mind too much when I got into it anyway. Mr. Curtis seemed nice, too; he spent most of his time watching football on TV with the gang, though, while I talked to Mrs. Curtis.

She even insisted that I crashed on her couch at her place, and _apologized_ for not giving me a bed. A bed. For me, a random hood from New York that she had literally just met, and was running from the fuzz with his life. _Man,_ I thought, _the Curtis brothers sure are lucky. I sure am too, having met them._

I didn't think that for long.

A/N: Thank you so much for the views and review from FrankElza! Stay Gold, Everybody!


	3. Chapter 3: Out of It?

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Outsiders,_ S.E. Hinton does.

Chapter 3: Out of It?

Johnny POV

I was pretending to be asleep, because I wanted to think. I'd slept on the sofa in the Curtis house, instead of my usual spot on the armchair; that had been taken by the new boy, Dallas Winston. I'd heard of him. He was hard as nails and twice as tough, and he was tuff, too. I was almost afraid of him, but he seemed so — brave, and tough, and cold, hard, mean, but he still had a spark inside.

I was feeling tired. Tired of school, my parents always beating me, the Socs harassing us both physically and emotionally. I was just tired of life at that point. _Why?_ I thought. _Why can't my life just be normal, why can't I have normal parents, normal friends, and…_ I'd always considered the Curtis parents to be almost my own. They scarcely knew me and I barely talked to them, but I felt infinitely more comfortable in their house than in my own.

 _When you're happier sleeping on the sofa in your friend's house than in your own bed, you know there's something wrong._ I had always wanted an older brother. Just as a positive influence in my life, who had been through everything that I had. Somebody that could tell me that everything was okay, and someone I would believe if they said that.

And many people think that greasers don't care, but I do. I care. About the Curtises, and Ponyboy especially, he's my best friend and practically by brother. I treat him like an equal, I always feel as though we are twins in spite of the two-year age gap. He's a lot more oblivious than I am though.

Blissful ignorance, I think they call it. And a teacher at school once told me that I was ignorant, and that ignorance was the greatest enemy of the truth. I didn't get that. I really didn't. I was the one without a home to go to at night, without a family to call my own. And _he_ thought that I had a normal life. I guess I do. Normal for a boy on the East Side, anyway. The Curtis parents were the only decent ones I knew. _He_ was the ignorant one. The one that thought the relationship between Socs and greasers was stable, _damn_ that guy was ignorant.

And the gang. The gang, the only people in the world that I trusted with my life, felt welcome around, and wasn't looked down upon by. The gang, and the Curtises. I don't know what we'd do without them. They are like parents to the whole gang.

Two-Bit's mom is single and always working; Steve's are like mine. Everyone says the teenage years are tough. I believe it. But this is worse. I'm twelve. Not a kid. Not cute, not young enough to be completely oblivious to everything like Ponyboy is. Not a teenager either. Not old enough for the hoods to take you seriously, not old enough to bluff as an adult, not old enough to buy a house, work, or do _anything_ , for that matter.

I rolled over on the sofa, groaned slightly, and decided to wake up before Sodapop decides to start tickling me to get me up. I can hear him bugging Ponyboy already.

Dally POV

I was curled up on the armchair in the Curtis' place. It was nice of them to give me a place to crash, and Tulsa seemed pretty calm.

I jumped out of the armchair, and suddenly, my eyes rested on the sleeping figure of that quiet kid, was his name, oh yes, Johnny. He seemed nice enough, but looked like — _damn, I'm really bad at putting things into words, ugh —_ like he lived his life in fear. According to that kid — Horsey- no, _Pony_ boy, his parents beat him and kicked him out of the house all the time. It showed. His eyes were closed now, but when they weren't he had this suspicious look about him.

I rolled off the armchair and walked into the bathroom. I splashed some cold water on my face to wake myself up, and then left the Curtis house quietly, before anyone woke up. I _hated_ attention. I got far too much of it for the wrong reasons anyway, not like _the_ Dallas Winston gave a damn, though. My personal philosophy was _get tough and nothing can touch you._ Because if you don't care about anything, nothing can break you. I'd been that way all my life. My parents beat me and didn't give a hang about me, so I left when I was ten and lived on the streets of New York for the last three years.

And I saw a lot. Did a lot. Heard a lot. But not the things that I wanted to see, to do, to hear. The things that the rich kids never had to do. The things the poor kids did on a daily basis. Steal. Drink. Fight, not just for kicks, not just for pride, but for survival. Because that's the only thing a young hood like I had been would ever want. Survival.

I had nothing better to do, so I started walking. After around half an hour of just meandering around the area, I noticed that across this street, the houses looked bigger, fancier, neater, clenaer, and had consistent paint coats. _Oh, this must be the side where those stupid Socs live,_ I thought, both smirking and grimacing and the same time, if that was possible. I was about to walk boldly across and annoy the rich kids, maybe scratch up their fancy cars or mess up their beautiful jewelry, when a voice sounded.

"Hey!" I saw a dark haired boy who looked like a hood, surrounded by a gang. They were smoking and talking, one of the guys even had a bottle of booze. _Who the hell drinks at this time of the morning?_ Suddenly I realized that it probably wasn't that early, because I began to sweat. _Damn Tulsa, its so bloody hot,_ I thought.

"Hey," I returned, and the boy looked at me quizzically.

"I haven't seen you around, are you new here?"

"Yeah," I said, making sure my New York accent came out prominently in that sentence. "The name's Dallas Winston, hopped a freight from New York yesterday — the fuzz're pissed 'cause my gang and I —"

"—Stole a bunch of them cop cars, I know," one of the other guys said.

"I'm Tim Shepard," the guy said, "An' this is my gang."

"Hey, I got a question for ya," I said. "What the hell's the deal with the whole _tough_ thing?"

"Ah, I forgot, you're new, aren't 'cha," Tim said, "Yeah, tough means, well, I dunno, don't ask me, I dropped out a while ago."

"I'll ask that kid then — Ponyboy," I drawled. "Looks like he's the kind of kid that'd know that kind of nonsense." Tim and his gang reminded me a lot of mine back in New York. A wave of nostalgia came over me, and I smiled. Tim himself kind of acted like I did. I pulled a cigarette out of my pocket, and lit up.

"Damn straight," said Tim, "That baby Curtis, man, does he read too much." I raised my eyebrows and a smirk turned up the left corner of my mouth. Was Tim seriously calling Ponyboy 'baby Curtis?' What the hell?

"What 'cha call the middle one, then, Shepard?" I asked.

"Kid Curtis, and the big one's just Curtis," he answered, obviously amused. "I didn't come up with that, Curly did."

"What kind of a name is that? And who is this kid anyway?" I asked, feeling both amused and annoyed by Tim's logic.

"Curly? Oh, he's my kid brother. He's tough, but he's so stupid. He robbed a liquor store _in broad daylight,_ at two in the afternoon, when there was a damn cop right in front of it! He's in the reform for four months now." I burst out laughing. Seriously, how stupid did you have to be? I voiced this thought.

"Christ, Tim, how stupid do ya have to be to pull somethin' like that?" He let out a sharp laugh.

"No idea," he said. "But that's ol' Curls for ya." I smiled at this ridiculous nickname for an equally ridiculous name. _Curly?_ Seriously? And I thought _Ponyboy_ and _Sodapop_ were bad. Channeling my inner New York-ness, I had to come up with an insult.

"Guess it runs in the family," I drawled, and Tim's eyes narrowed.

"You lookin' for a fight, Winston?" he asked.

"Nah, I'm good," I answered, "But I could use a drink and a broad right about now."

"Good luck picking up a broad, man, you'll need it," he said. I rolled my eyes and ignored him.

"Where can I find a drink?" I asked him.

"Buck's," was his monosyllabic response. I raised my eyebrows and let my confused expression show on my face. He took the hint. "There's a party all night every night, he's got a bar, and he rents upstairs rooms out long-term, or," he gave me a wolfish grin, "…by the hour." I returned the grin. Maybe Tulsa wasn't as out of it as I thought.

As I strolled down the road with Tim, bickering about the most useless things, calling one another a long list of names, not the least of which was _ugly,_ and laughing about the latest stupid things that Curly, and Tim's kid _sister_ Angela, had done, my grin suddenly faded. I saw a group of Socs, the same ones that had _tried,_ emphasis on _tried,_ to jump me yesterday, surrounding somebody. I started to run to whoever it was they were jumping. It was Ponyboy. I ran into the crowd of Socs, and punched one as hard as I could in the face.

As I did, I began to realize just how cheap these Socs were. There were _four_ of them, about my age or maybe a little older, ganging up on a ten-year-old kid. These furious thoughts brought me even more strength and force in my swing, and what felt like a few seconds later, two of the Socs were knocked unconscious and the other two were running into the distance. A couple of tears ran down Ponyboy's cheeks, and he smiled when I put my hand on his shoulder.

I waved at Tim's retreating figure and walked the hurt Ponyboy into the Curtis house. Mrs. Curtis was concerned, naturally, but she thanked me more times than I'd ever been thanked in my life before. Suddenly, I began to warm to her. She asked me how I learned to fight so well, and I had told her the truth.

My parents were drunk and abusive, and by the time I was ten I was completely fed up. I was a part of a gang, and they respected me even though I was the youngest. As I became older, I was the unofficial leader, and when the fuzz were after me for stealing cop cars, I hopped a freight to Tulsa. She wasn't overly freaked out or anything, didn't lecture me, just gave me this disappointed _look_ whenever I mentioned stealing or someone getting murdered. Mrs. Curtis sure knew the score, and she tried to talk me out of stealing things and stuff. Not like I cared, anyway.

But one thing was for sure. I sure didn't think Tulsa was out of it anymore.

A/N: I'm sorry the update took while, even though I still managed to stay within my deadline, I was hoping get it up a little sooner. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

Stay Gold, Everyone!


	4. Chapter 4: Memories

A/N: I don't even know what this chapter is — it's just some background of Dally's history and some people that he knew in New York. I know it's a little different than the rest of the story, but let me know what you guys think of it?

Disclaimer: Ughh, why do I always forget to do this and remember at the last second? Anyway: I do not own _The Outsiders,_ S.E. Hinton does.

Dally POV

I rubbed my eyes, groaned, and streched as I pulled myself out of the Curtis couch, again, for the second night in a row. For some reason, I just felt sick. Like I was going to throw up or something. But I got a glass of water and tried to shake off the feeling. _I really need to get out of here,_ I thought, _Mrs. Curtis probably doesn't like the fact that I'm setting a bad example to her boys but is too nice to kick me out._ As I got up, grabbed my brown leather jacket that used to belong to a friend in New York, a feeling of almost — _homesickness_ began to wash over me.

I rolled my eyes at the though of homesickness, and began to wonder. _What kind of world is it where a thirteen year old, more Christ's sake, who's on the run from the cops, misses an_ alleyway, _a goddam_ alleyway _on the wild side of New York City that he considers more home than his parents' house? Isn't there something really wrong with that picture?_ I snapped out of those thoughts, only to plunge right into a series of other ones. Ones that I really did not want to think about, but that came to my brain and refused to be pushed out.

I thought about the history of that jacket, how my friend, a kid five years older than I was, boy named Bill, had lifted it from a department store when I was just shy of nine years old, still living in my parents' house and getting beat up. He was the unofficial leader of the gang then, _that_ gang, the one back ho- no, the one back in New York. _I'm turning soft,_ I thought, _since when does_ the _Dallas Winston_ have any feelings at all? Anyway, he'd lifted it and I'd always admired it. The brown leather was soft, slightly worn, but tough and cool all at the same time.

Bill had no family, save for his kid brother, who was about my age. No friends, no nothing, except for the gang. He was always there for the gang; we were always there for him. Because he didn't have anything or anyone else. None of us did. And he was hard, cold, and mean, and his brother was the only person in the world that he cared about. And I began to remember. To remember all of the things that I wanted most to forget.

 _One day, a group of guys from a rival gang jumped Bill's kid brother. They did it to get back at Bill. And those guys — they hated Bill because he made them all look stupid time and time again in rumbles, and insulted them like there was no tomorrow._

 _Nonetheless, they'd been practically beating him to death to get back at Bill; there's a reason I was skeptical about walking the streets alone the first day or two in Tulsa. And then Bill shows up, and tries to start fighting. And another group of rival gang members showed up, and Bill and his kid brother were completely outnumbered. I'd had a premonition that something was wrong, and I'd dragged the whole gang to the alleyway that we practically_ lived _in half the time. And we were just in time to see some blasted — some_ goddamn punk _shoot Bill's brother. Right in the head. And we knew that there was no saving him._

 _And we all jumped into action. We knocked them all out — some of them may've even been killed for all I know. Next thing we knew we heard sirens and knew that the fuzz were after us. I followed Bill, to try and prevent him from doing something crazy. And suddenly something that he'd always told me rang through my head like a ceaseless gong or something. It kept echoing, bouncing off the walls of my brain, it felt._ "Get tough and you don't get hurt. Get smart and look out for yourself an' ain't nothing that can touch you." _So I followed him. He ran into a bookstore, and ran in circles for a few seconds, like a madman. Bill then broke the most important rule of robbing any store, anyhow, anywhere. He took his unloaded gun and pointed it at the salesclerk. He then ripped the pages out of half a dozen books, threw them at the guy, and ran._

 _He knew the cops were after him. He knew they'd get him sooner or later. And I didn't see why he was trying, but never got a chance to ask him why. He ran, and I followed him. The two of us darted into the alley that we knew better than the backs of our hands, and he grabbed me by the shoulders. He shook me slightly, and said: "Dally, you're a good kid, and you don't deserve to be here. Get the hell out of here. Seriously. I'm not kidding." He breathed deeply, and so did I. Bill swallowed hard, as if he was in great pain, and I didn't realize until later that he was, and then quoted somebody. Himself. "Dally, I just— just remember this. You get tough, you don't get hurt. You get smart, ya look after yourself, nothing's gonna touch you. But Dally, don't be like me. Don't have a breaking point. Because then you end up like me. Broken." He let out a laugh, different from any other I'd ever heard. It was a bitter laugh. Like he had just given up on life, and what I didn't realize then was that he had._

 _He darted out of the alley, and into the street, where the cops were hot on his trail. He handed me his jacket, saying, "Take it. It's all I could give you, Dally, hell, it's all I have." I kept running, but realized suddenly that Bill was six feet behind me, yelling, "Keep going, Dally, I stop here. I've had just about enough of life, and I figure I'll end it willingly. Just one thing, Dally, don't let anything touch you."I stopped short, and his hand jumped to his belt. Somehow, I knew what he was going to do._

 _"_ _Bill," I yelled, "Just remember this. Bill, I know that nobody's ever told you this before, but me, me and the gang, we love you, and we care about you. But it's your choice and I know you've made up your mind. Just- we'll miss you, Bill. And I promise you, I'll get out of here one day." He looked in my general direction and yelled, just as he raised the gun and was shot down by the police, "I hope so, and Dally-" And I could have sworn, just before the first bullet hit 'im, that he whispered, "I love you, too."_

And it was then that I realized why I was feeling sick. It was March 14. The day that Bill and his brother left us. The fateful day that the future of our gang changed forever. The day that I made up my mind that I would proudly wear his jacket for always, and that I would lead our gang and keep us together. Because after losing Bill _and_ his kid brother, we would need it the most.

A/N: I'd like to thank FrankElza, for sticking with me and giving me so much support with this story and all of my other ones, I really appreciate it. Stay Gold, Everyone!


	5. Chapter 5: Memories, the New Reality

Chapter 5: Memories are Reality

A/N: I kind of feel like this chapter is a little too reflective for Dally, but I hope that you like it. Also, I'm sorry for the wait; I'll try to get the next one up in another couple of days.

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Outsiders,_ S.E. Hinton does.

Dally POV

My wishes were granted. The pictures began to disappear. Bill's crumpled image, lying on the New York City streets, with swarms of police cars, my terrified face, the lights, the sounds, the _fear,_ all began to fade. They swirled into a giant mass of color, and then I heard it. The sound that I hated more than anything else in the world, but had heard far more times than I'd like to remember. Gunfire. I heard the shot, that ended Bill's life, killed a piece of our gang, and changed my life forever. And as the pictures swirled, so did my empty stomach. I felt as though I was going to throw up, again, but ignored it. Because I was remembering. Remembering the words that, try as I might, that I would never forget. Ever.

"Get tough and nothing can touch you." Perhaps the best bit of advice I'd ever gotten. And I'd followed it, too; since that fateful day exactly, I shuddered, a year ago, I'd shut the world out. Everyone and everything. My gang, my friends, and now the Curtis brothers and their friends. It scared me. That Mrs. Curtis was able to reach through the protective wall I'd built around myself and touch my heart the way only she could. The way that, for some weird reason, she understood where I was coming from. The way that she understood, even though she'd never been through, and never would go through what I had.

I needed to stop thinking. This was worse then when I got locked up, in jail, I'd constantly relive bad memories, but nothing like htis. I was killing myself over the past, and letting the boy who told me not to let anything touch you, break me. _No. No. I can't do this anymore,_ I thought, in exasperation. _I need to stop thinking. I never did this at ho- in New York; why am I doing it now?_ And I knew the answer. In New York, I had a rep. And everything I did had to be in compliance with that rep. And thinking certainly wasn't. So I never did it. This is what keeping company with hoods does to you.

Speaking of hoods, I figured I might as well find ol' Tim. He seemed like a pretty tuff guy, not that I'd ever admit that. And I snapped out of my thought and realized that I was _still_ on the Curtis couch. As I quickly jumped up, a small voice broke into my head.

"Dally?" It was a question. Coming from Johnny. I gave him the first friendly smile I'd given anyone in years, and answered.

"Yeah, kid?" He grinned shyly back, and I felt myself warming to him. Like a- a kid brother, almost. Except, _No. I can't care. I_ won't _care._ But I couldn't help myself. I went over to him, and he stood up. He was a lot shorter than I was, although had a slight build with dark skin, and jet-black hair and eyes. He looked almost — afraid. Afraid? Why would he be afraid of me? But I remember thinking that he looked like that all the time. Maybe he had just been beaten on and yelled at so much by his parents and the rich kids, the Socs, that he'd just grown and lived in fear of the world.

"What's it like in New York?" he asked suddenly. The question took me completely off guard. I had never been asked that before, probably never would be again. I hesitated.

"It's very different from here — the people, you, you can't really trust anybody. Because it's every man for himself unless you get into a gang, and then you've got people who watch your back and take care of you. Not like they go out of their way to be nice or anything, they just won't let you get jumped without beating up the guys that did it, ya dig? It's kind of like the setup that you've got here. Except nobody on the wild side of New York has parents to speak of." His big eyes seemed to get even bigger at the last sentence. He then looked down at his hands.

"Not that many people've got decent parents here either," he answered, softly. "Mine, an' Steve's, I dunno whose are worse. Mine ignore me 'til they're hacked off at me and then they beat me and yell so loud you can hear 'em a mile away. Steve's are fine, but beat on 'im once in a while and kick him out on a regular basis. Then they get sober again an' are sorry and all that jazz, an' they give him some money to make up." His eyes seemed to cloud over, and then grew clear again. "But the Curtis' are tuff, man, they've basically let us use their house as our own." He looked up at me. I gave him a soft smile, again, and gave him probably the most affectionate gesture my body was capable of giving out.

I ruffled his hair, and said, "You dig okay, Johnnykid." He rolled his eyes at the nickname, and then said, "Hey, it ain't as bad as what the guys call me sometimes." I raised my eyebrows, prompting him.

"Johnnycake. Smushed together Johnny and Cade and then changed a letter." I laughed, because for some odd reason, the name suited him. "And about New York, you've seen things you wish you hadn't, haven't you? It shows on your face. I mean…" I gave him a quizzical look. Here I had been trying to read him for several minutes and he took one look at me and completely understood where I was coming from. It was almost — _humbling. Since when did Dallas Winston let a twelve-year-old kid's scary ability to read people get to him?_ I seriously needed to keep my guard up.

"Yeah." I finally answered Johnny's question. "Things that- that nobody should have to see, be they twelve like I was at the time, or seventeen…" _like Bill had been,_ I thought, as I trailed off. "Just- the world should never have to see these things, Johnny, and I wish," my voice broke for the second time in my life, and I winced inwardly, remembering the first time, the first time I told anybody that I loved them, the last time he would hear it, "I wish I hadn't been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Because I have been. More times than I'd like to count."

He gave me a smile, not a shy one this time, a real one. And I knew that he knew that I knew that he understood. And he did. And that made me feel good. I tousled his hair one more time, gave him another genuine smile, not the classic Dallas Winston smirk, but a real smile, and walked out the door. I was looking for reality. Which to me meant hoods, trouble, the fuzz, and a gang. And there was only one place I knew I could get all four. Tim Shepard's.


	6. Chapter 6: Stay Strong

**Disclaimer: I do not own** ** _The Outsiders,_** **S.E. Hinton does.**

 **A/N: Thank you for the reviews I have gotten on this story so far; hope that I will receive more as they really help with the writing process… Also, I am really sorry for the long wait and am not going to try and come up with any excuses :(**

 **FrankElza: Thank you for sticking with this story and giving me so much personal feedback on this story and all of my others.**

 **Lovetoread75: I really appreciate all of the detailed comments on what you liked about the story; I really love reading the way you seem to interact with the story.**

 **Anon: Honestly, your reviews just make me smile and want to write more.**

 **Anyway, on with the story!**

Dally POV

I walked, scratch that, strutted, to the old alleyway that ol' Tim had said that he and his gang hung out with my characteristic smirk on my face. I was hunting action. I was in my element now. I _belonged_ here now. A smirk turned up the left-hand corner of my mouth as I heard Tim whisper, "Shhhh…." Man, did he think I was deaf? I had just seen his darting shadow, and I knew that he was behind a trash can. The rest of his gang was probably around that corner. _Huh, appropriate that_ Tim _was the only one near the trash._ I grinned slightly at my own wit. I decided to scare _him_ a little in return, just for fun. Hey, he asked for it.

I coughed and shuffled forward a little bit, until Tim's head ducked down. I knew he couldn't see me, and neither could the rest of his gang. After all, I'd played this old trick more times than I could count back in New York. Ah, the memories. _NO. I CANNOT get all sentimental again. You've done this too many times, and you'll lose your rep in a half-second if you go on like this._ The voices in my head _refused_ to shut up. I narrowed my eyes and took a flying leap, jumping on top of the trash can and knocking it over. From under me, I heard an ear-piercing scream. Was there a 10 year old girl under there? No, there couldn't be. That simply couldn't be possible.

Tim's gang emerged from the corner, see, I was right, and looked on in horror. I jumped back. Tim _and_ somebody who looked an awful lot like his kid brother Curly _both_ staggered out. I looked at his gang.

"Are they drunk?" I asked them, and got no response. Tim choked out, "NO, you idiot, of course we aren't!" And I stepped back further. They were covered in trash and dirt, and I murmured, "Looks like you two found your long lost home." If looks could kill, the pair of glares that I got from those Shepard brothers would have burned through me. And then an astonishing thing happened. Shepard's entire gang, and I mean every guy, from that 10 year old kid to the 18 year old, began to laugh. All of them. A couple started to roll around on the floor, and clutch one another.

Another glare from Tim ensued, and he jumped on top of me with his fists clenched. "Jesus Christ!" I yelled, and then continued. "No need to get all worked up into a tizzy, Timmy," I added in a high, mother-like tone. He growled at me. "Don't you EVER call me Timmy again, ya hear?" While getting up and grabbing Tim's fists in mine, I asked his brother, "Hey, kid, what's your name, and is he always like this?" The kid nodded, and told me that his name was Curly. What kind of a name is that? And I had just met two kids called Sodapop and Ponyboy.

Tim looked at his brother, his gang, his dirtied shirt and pants, and then at me. A funny look crossed his eyes, and then he began to laugh. He grabbed my shoulder and fell against it, helpless with giggles. "Get ahold of yourself, Shepard," I laughed, as he pulled himself up from the ground.

"Alright, let's dash," he said, dragging me by the arm out of the alleyway. "We're going to Buck's." I raised my eyebrows. Mrs. Curtis had told me never to go there, but I shrugged it off at the time. I didn't care, it had been a very long time since I actually listened to an adult.

"Okay," I responded, and as we walked in the door, I didn't regret it.

There was a massive bar, first of all, and I had a fake ID plus looked old for my age. It's what living on the streets getting beaten up every other day (if you're lucky) for years does to you. There were about forty or fifty girls, with lots of makeup on, all flirting with various guys. _This looks good,_ I thought to myself, and decided to spend the night here.

A devilish grin spread across my face as somebody handed me a bottle of beer and a couple of girls started to flirt with me. _I could get used to this,_ I thought contentedly as I sipped my beer. But for some reason, I felt guilty. Now, guilt wasn't a feeling that I was all too familiar with, simply because I didn't give a damn about anybody but myself.

But I thought of Mrs. Curtis, and me disobeying her, and of Johnny, all alone in the lot or the Curtis home, probably, and I sighed. _Don't let it get to you. Stay strong, don't let it get to you. If you're tough, hard, and unfeeling, then nothing can touch you._ I looked to the bartender. "Give me another drink," I said, my words slurring ever so slightly, "And spike it with something stronger if ya don't mind." The little voice in my head had three words to say to my internal speech. _Or can it?_ The bartender grinned back, and I saw him crack open a bottle of something, whiskey, maybe, or tequila.

All I knew was the rest of that night was spent in pure, drunken, bliss.

A/N: Sorry that this one's a little short; I'm going to try to update more frequently… Also, I have no idea what people spike drinks with :)


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